No Better Taste
by le-ouiaboo
Summary: France/Lithuania, ensemble: kink meme de-anon, a romance in a restaurant kitchen setting between 2 chefs. WIP.
1. Chapter 1

[Author's Note: Welcome to yet another kink meme fill of mine that has yet to be finished. I'll post the 2 and 1/2 parts already written and maybe I'll get around to the rest... someday. Thanks for reading!]

* * *

Yao's piercing voice had taken on a particularly frantic quality, and everyone attempted to scurry out of range of the soup ladle he wielded as a sort of homely yet effective disciplinary instrument. Yet even with this latest distraction, not one of the workers dared take their concentration away from the food, for fear of becoming the next target of the head chef's wrath.

At the soup station, Toris ducked his head, not needing to pretend to look busy chopping vegetables. The rounded bowl of the ladle prodded him on the side, and he felt his stomach clenching in distress.

"Where is Francis?" Yao snapped. "Why isn't he at his station?"

Toris cringed, briefly torn between covering for his fellow chef and telling the truth, but quickly settling for the truth in the end. "H-he's taking his cigarette break, Chef Wang."

"We have a party of twelve arriving in twenty minutes, find him at once! And tell him he needs to quit smoking! …Aiyaaa, what did I do to deserve such a crew?" Yao whirled around, muttering to himself in Chinese as he sought out Feliciano, who in a stroke of rare brilliance had fled to the dining room to mingle with the patrons.

Sighing as loudly as he dared, Toris set the knife down and wiped his hands on his apron. Despite the hectic pace and the idiosyncrasies of his co-workers and boss, he actually enjoyed working at this restaurant more days than not. But he also had the sinking feeling that he may be the only sane person employed in the kitchens, and that was not a very encouraging thought.

Toris headed towards the loading area, where Francis could be found lounging against the railing, cigarette held loosely between thin fingers, looking utterly calm, as if he could not hear the head chef screaming for his blood. At least Francis was mostly pleasant and cooperative for an insane person, his only fault being overly proud of his training at Le Cordon Bleu and showing off his undeniable flair for baking whenever he could. That is, whenever he was not on any of his numerous cigarette breaks.

Opening the door, Toris peeked around the corner and smiled shyly at the errant pastry chef.

"Umm, Francis? Sorry, but Chef Wang needs you to get back to work as soon as possible." He cleared his throat as Francis stared at him, then rallied his courage and continued delivering the message.

"If it's not too forward of me to say so, you should really consider quitting smoking. For your health, I mean," Toris added quickly, "not because the boss doesn't want you taking so many breaks."

"Oh, of course, of course…" Francis replied, blowing a stream of smoke into the air almost lazily before directing a warm, brilliant smile at him. "I admit, I had no idea you worried about my well-being, Toris."

"Well, I… someone has to be." Toris felt a blush creeping up his neck under the intensity of Francis' gaze, and suddenly wished, uselessly, that Yao had asked someone else to find him.

"How kind of you. I appreciate the concern, do not doubt that." Flicking the spent cigarette into the trashcan, Francis then drawled, "But if I were to quit smoking, I would need some other… thing to help me… relax." He pronounced "thing" like "sin" and "relax" like "indulge my wicked, decadent cravings," and there was no doubt that he meant to do so.

Toris froze, his smile fixed in place as his brain hastily tried to string some words together into coherent English. "Oh, err, I heard that chewing gum can help the transition," he offered, surprising himself with that almost logical burst of inspiration. "Not that I've tried it myself, but it sounds like it could work. You know, for… y-you…"

Francis glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. "Oh, you used to smoke? I would have never guessed."

"My last job was very stressful, believe me." Breathing easier now, Toris leaned against the door, holding it open for Francis. "Let's get back before the boss starts yelling again."

Chuckling to himself, Francis slid by him, and in that brief moment, Toris caught a whiff of tobacco, a hint of sugar and dark chocolate, sparkling with notes of expensive wines, the scent of someone used to the finest things in life. Even after Toris resumed tending to his pots and pans, he found himself longing for the chance to brush by Francis again, as if he could somehow vicariously live out a life of assured luxury that way, by intangible sensations and near touches. Then he sighed and shook his head abruptly, trying to clear his thoughts and focus. It wouldn't do to cut himself because he was daydreaming of things he could never have.

* * *

Later that night, the kitchen staff was treated to another showdown between Yao and Francis. It was fairly mild as far as arguments went, since Yao's main complaint with Francis, that he was lazy, was a complaint he saw in everyone except probably Toris. Not only that, but the entire staff had noticed how much more business the restaurant had seen ever since Francis had been hired on as the new pastry chef, and Yao could not afford to lose such a valuable employee, whatever his personal failings may be. However, with the ultimatum given, Francis had no choice but to accede to Yao's demands, and the argument ended as abruptly as it started.

As soon as the head chef flounced out to oversee the waiters, Francis returned to his station, a look of hurt dignity on his handsome face. He noticed Toris staring at him from across the way and smiled sheepishly.

"It looks like I may have to start chewing that gum sooner than I expected, if I want to keep my job." Francis sighed, but in amusement. "I am afraid I will look very silly doing so."

"I'm sure you won't look silly, Francis."

"Nothing like Feliks up front?" France suggested slyly, referring to the bubbly waiter who had been hounded to stop smacking his gum and blowing bubbles during his shift, to a complete lack of success.

"N-no, not at all," Toris replied, laughing somewhat nervously. "We're just friends, you know, Feliks and I."

"Oh? I wasn't suggesting you two were anything but friends."

Blushing, Toris wondered why he blurted that out, to Francis of all people. Even if he _were_ still with Feliks, which he wasn't, that wouldn't have mattered, since everyone in the kitchen and even the wait staff had gotten floury handprints on the seat of their trousers by now, as that seemed to be the way Francis said hello. But it was concerning him how easily Francis disturbed his composure, made him say things he would never tell anyone else with just a little half-smile. How he kept falling for him, knowing what Francis was truly like, all flirty flightiness and shameless self-obsession. And still, Toris could not help worrying about Francis, could not stop himself from thinking and wondering, what if…

"I will do my best to quit on my own," Francis was saying, "but you will have to keep the cigarettes away from me. I will be tempted, so sorely tempted." He wrung his hands fretfully, already anticipating missing his nicotine fix, his eyes searching Toris' face for any hint of sympathy. "You will help me, won't you, _mon ami_?"

"I know you can do it, you are already on the first step," Toris reassured him. "But if you do need anything else, just let me know, and I will do my best to help."

Francis had already turned back to his work by then, but Toris could hear him murmur, "Thank you, Toris."

Throughout the rest of the evening, Toris felt strangely light on his feet, and he didn't notice that his stomach pains had disappeared until he got back home and reached for his medicine and discovered he did not need it. Setting the medicine bottle back on his nightstand, he curled up under his quilts and fell asleep almost immediately before the usual nightmares could settle in.


	2. Chapter 2

He had tried to quit smoking before, but Francis found he could not tolerate the withdrawal symptoms for more than a few weeks at most. It wasn't just the nicotine he craved, it was also the act of keeping his mouth busy as well. Chewing the nicotine replacement gum helped somewhat, but he still suffered from breakthrough headaches, feeling irritable and anxious whenever the gum started to lose its effect. Several times throughout their shifts, Francis complained at length about quitting. Yet Toris always listened patiently from his corner of the kitchen, ready to offer some words of empathy or encouragement, and ready to point him in the direction of the restroom for his break, which was not in the same location as the loading dock, and which was equipped with an inconvenient smoke detector as well.

Although they never really talked until recently, being too busy with their work and avoiding the head chef's scrutiny, Francis enjoyed confiding in Toris, who was quiet, but supportive, almost motherly, and much too adorable with his soft voice and gentle manners. Tucked away in the back of the kitchens, it was easy for them to converse, with minimal noise interference from the dish washers and Lovino's cursing. Of course, they could not speak for long before getting interrupted by a new order, which set them back to work, stirring and sautéing and baking. But it was nice, just to be able to talk, if they wanted to.

* * *

Before too long, Francis had survived one week without needing a smoke break, and at the first opportunity he could find, he proudly announced this to Toris.

Toris congratulated him on his progress. "So you haven't smoked one cigarette in the past seven days? Not one?"

"Actually… I did smoke half a cigarette," Francis confessed, unable to openly lie in front of those trusting green eyes. "It was ah, after sex a few nights ago, force of habit. But I stopped as soon as I remembered!"

Toris turned a lovely shade of crimson, but managed to stammer, "Oh! W-we don't have to count that. Although you should try to remember for next time, you know?"

This time Francis laughed, a rich, still smoky sound, and Toris let out a nervous laugh.

"How can you trust that I will succeed, anyway?" Francis asked slyly. "Unless you were there to see for yourself, hmm?"

Toris could not bring himself to answer, and he quickly excused himself, saying he needed to retrieve some ingredients from the pantry.

In the privacy of the pantry, Toris tried to compose his feelings, willing the blush on his cheeks to die down. He shouldn't have gotten involved with Francis, but it was the first time in a while that he thought he could do something truly useful for someone else. Having Francis actually talk to him, as equals and maybe even as friends, that feeling was as addictive as any drug. It didn't help that he may have harbored a bit of an admiration for the pastry chef - almost everyone in the restaurant did at one point in time, except for perhaps the head waiter, Arthur Kirkland, whose immediate hatred for Francis exceeded Francis' own considerable antipathy. Of course, after a few weeks of enduring lewd innuendoes and unwanted pats on the bottom, they all dropped their plans of courtship in favor of avoiding Francis and whatever venereal diseases he may be carrying at the moment.

Everyone except me, Toris thought mournfully. There was no help for it, after the next week, he vowed to distance himself from Francis and go on as if nothing had changed. That would be best for them both. Unless Francis needed help with the baking, or if he asked for a ride home, or if he relapsed… But no, not even then, Toris decided. It was not his job to look after people anymore, and especially not someone like Francis.

* * *

But that was all easier said than done. The next seven days tested Toris' commitment severely. After the initial irritability, Francis' mood began to even out, and he fluttered about the kitchen, laughing and flirting, almost back to normal. He threw himself into his baking, creating such beautifully decorated cakes and pastries as to take one's breath away, and which reminded everyone that here was a master patissier at work. And Francis never failed to let Toris know that _he_ was partially responsible for this change, showering him with glittering smiles and occasional caresses (elbow to elbow of course, since anything else was considered unsanitary in the food preparation areas.)

Toris had been tending to the soups for the evening when Francis dropped by his station, gracing him with a look of pure affection.

"What are you up to today, darling?"

"The usual, French onion soup and minestrone. Nothing special," Toris answered modestly.

"Then you won't mind if I had a taste?"

Before he could react, Francis had grabbed his hand, the one holding the spoon he had been using to taste the French onion soup, and stuck the spoon into his mouth. He licked his lips thoughtfully, closing his eyes to more fully experience the taste.

"I think I am in love," Francis declared after a moment of reverent silence.

"You are?" Toris looked at him in shock, and then realized he was most likely talking about the soup.

"Something so humble and simple, and yet full of subtly surprising and robust flavors. You, young man, are a genius, and I do not say that lightly."

"It was probably the cognac I added."

"Probably so," Francis agreed. "I am very fond of alcohol."

His fingers were still clasped around Toris' wrist, and Toris gently extricated himself with just the slightest reluctance. "Thanks, Francis, I appreciate it."

Francis simply smiled, lowering his gaze, and this close to him, Toris realized he was actually taller than Francis, who always carried himself so confidently, but who was apparently just as vulnerable as anyone else. The realization made his heart beat faster for some reason, although instead of the usual fear gnawing at his belly, there was the odd sensation of fuzziness, almost ticklish in a pleasant way.

"Ah, I should get back, I think the bread is almost finished," Francis said hurriedly, heading back to his corner. Meanwhile, Toris considered the spoon in his hand and brought it to his mouth, putting his lips where Francis had last touched it, imagining that he was tasting something more than what the poor soup had to offer.

* * *

After their shift ended, Francis presented Toris with a small box of freshly baked shortbread cookies, drizzled with chocolate and garnished with orange zest, which Toris accepted with a surprised but delighted smile.

"Tomorrow would mark my second week of quitting," Francis said, sounding much too nonchalant to actually pull off any semblance of nonchalance. "I thought the two of us could go celebrate this impressive milestone with some drinks after work."

As much as he hated to do so, Toris had to turn him down. "Why don't we wait until your third week? Since that is when you say you usually give up?" It would give him seven more days to put his heart back into its proper place in his chest as well.

However, Francis looked absolutely affronted that Toris would expect him to give up on his quitting so easily. "I thought you had more faith in me, Toris!"

"I do believe in you, but I think it would make it more special if we waited."

Sighing dramatically, Francis consented. "If you say so. I suppose it will be worth it."

"And I'll take care of these cookies for you, Francis, don't worry."

Francis laughed and blew him a kiss as he left. "_Au revoir, mon cher_!"

He tried to make the cookies last, eating each one slowly, alternating each delicious bite with a sip of coffee, but despite his resolve, there were only happy memories of crumbs left by the next day. Somehow Francis must have predicted that this would happen, and Toris returned from his mid-shift break to find a piping hot apple-filled pastry at his station, which he attempted to ignore, but ended up devouring within five minutes of its discovery, licking his fingertips of every last bit of flaky sugar and wishing for more.

* * *

The next time Francis went to get something from the refrigerator, Toris shyly called him over and asked if he would like to taste a new recipe he was hoping to pitch to Chef Wang. Francis immediately said yes, he would love to. Obviously whatever he needed to get from the refrigerator could wait.

Toris' creamy vegetable soup had been inspired by a recipe his Lithuanian grandmother had passed down to him, and he was hoping to get feedback to see if it would go over well with their clientele. Flattered that his expertise had been consulted, Francis listened avidly to Toris' description and took his time savoring the soup's aroma, delicately sipping the hot liquid from the spoon. He ended up praising the soup's unique qualities so effusively he choked on his gum halfway through his speech, and panicking, Toris attempted to perform the Heimlich maneuver on him before Francis recovered enough breath to tell him to stop, for he had already swallowed the gum.

One of the assistant cooks had rushed over to help, but as soon as Sadiq saw what was going on, he told them to get to the break room as that sort of activity was violating several health codes. No amount of explanation on Toris' part seemed to persuade Sadiq, who leered at them but promised he would keep their liaison secret from Chef Wang.

Toris watched him leave and sighed. "Francis, why didn't you say something?"

Shrugging elegantly, despite having nearly choked to death a scant three minutes earlier, Francis replied, "It was too entertaining watching you turn funny colors. Besides," he murmured in a lower voice, "I did not mind the idea of us being in a secret liaison. And I don't think you did, either…"

Their eyes met, and Toris knew he must be turning an aforementioned funny color, feeling as if Francis was looking through him, through the defenses he had built, straight into his heart which had been nursing its hopeless secret for so long. With difficulty, he swallowed, trying to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth, the words he had always wanted to say ready to be said if he could bring himself to just _say them._

Then Francis sniffed, detecting the smell of something about to burn, and he dashed back to his ovens, swearing in French, _sacre bleu_ and _zut alors_.

The moment passed. Toris wanted to cry.


End file.
